Blowing Smoke
by Matrix-Twin1
Summary: A weird little...thing...of minor Enjolrian insecurity, and general R cuteness.


I'm holding a cheap cigarette. I don't smoke, not really, but I like the smell as it drifts away from me, I like watching the curling smoke, I like just holding it. Now, if you want a smoker, go find Courfeyrac. He's not as bad as some, but he always has a fistful of cigars on hand. No, I hate the taste, and the smell of it on my hands. I just like to watch them. I see you across the street, give a little salute with the crumbling tip of my cigarette.

You smirk, disdainfully. "Adding another vice to your list, Grantaire?"

I shrug. For a moment, I think of explaining that I'm watching, not smoking, but you'd probably just think I was lying. I take a long drag, slowly blowing the majority of the smoke in your face. I must do these things, occasionally. I've smoked enough that I don't cough, that I make it look fairly natural.

You, of course, look disgusted. Not only am I smoking, but I breathed on you. How dare I. I hate seeing such an expression on your face, but I'm enough used to it that I simply continue smiling playfully at you. After a few more minutes, even I can't stand it, and I stub the cigarette out on a nearby wall, without looking. I drop it to the street.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't."

You raise an eyebrow, smothering me with sarcasm. "I see. That must have been some other Grantaire I just saw."

I sigh, rolling my eyes at you. "I'm a drinker; even I can only do so much. No…honestly, I just like holding it, watching it."

As I thought, you don't believe me. I pretend not to care. I happen, for some reason, to have another cigarette in my fob. I offer it to you. Neither of us wants it.

You sneer, starting to turn away. I drop the cigarette, not caring what happens to it. "It's a disgusting habit," I say, conversationally.

"Like so many things…" Again, the sarcasm. You hardly need a revolution, you could just slice them to death with your sarcasm. Really.

I lick my lips, getting the last nasty hint of tobacco off. You seem to think I intended the gesture for you, and look offended.

"Really, Winecask, have you no self control?"

I blink, not knowing what you mean. I understand after a moment, and laugh. "You think I was doing that for you? No. I was licking the nasty taste off…" I don't know why I bother explaining myself to you.

"Come. I want to show you something."

Now this is perplexing. What on earth could you want to show me, especially in this context? "You're not taking me to the morgue to see the cirrhosisified corpses again, are you? Once was more than enough, thanks."

You snort. "It hardly seems to have made an impact. But, no."

"Well, what, then? Some other display of horrors to get me to change my ways?"

You look exasperated. From you, it's almost affectionate. "Must you be so morbid? No. I was going for a walk in the fields outside Paris, and I hate walking by myself. Everyone else is busy. You, of course, never do anything."

How is it that even your invitations are insulting? However, a walk with you sounds…remarkable. I try to hide my surprise and delight, not knowing why I bother. You're not fooled. "Sure, why not?" I give you a wry look, "although I may have to postpone my conductorial debut, and rearrange my luncheon with the mayor."

"Grantaire, sarcasm does not become you. Come on." You hurry off. I envy your long, slender legs, and not just because they're yours. I have to hurry to keep up with you, no matter how slowly you go. Bad enough being ugly; do I have to be short, too? But it's worth it.

I stink of tobacco, and even I find the smell rather nauseating. You, surprisingly, haven't commented yet. You are, in fact, being oddly quiet. Just outside Paris, at a dusty crossroad full of deep cart tracks, you stop, abruptly. I nearly run into you, earning myself an Enjolrian stare.

"Grantaire…"

"Oui?" I can't think of anywhere I've ever been that's more beautiful than this moment, so I'm a little distracted.

"Why am I doing this?"

I peer at you. "You invited me…I didn't even follow you."

You laugh, dully. "No. I mean…all of it. Why am I trying to help the people? The majority seem perfectly content to tear each other to pieces, never mind anything I try."

I pale. "Gods, Enjolras, don't even say that…please…what's happened?"

"A new chief of police has just been hired…"

I nod. It's in my best interests to know these things. I don't understand why it's upset you, though.

You draw a deep breath, eyes closed, head tilted back. I wish I could keep this instant forever. The sun is setting, and your hair looks like fire. I have to look away, or I'll start crying. "He ordered all gypsies in Paris be run out…even those who have been living in Paris for generations…"

Cautiously, I put an arm over your shoulders. Well, not quite, you're too tall for that. But I try. "Shhh, mon ami, it's not your fault. That's what you're fighting for. Please…don't forget that. We need you."

You rest your head on my shoulder, and we watch the sunset.


End file.
